who scrubs the scrubbie?

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👇🏿 ain’t got no time for that? press play for the radical radio recording ✨


do you stop to ponder, or ever wonder, who scrubs the scrubbie?

perhaps you do,
and this is no news to you.
perhaps you’ve not,
so i’ll give this a shot.

a bit tongue in cheek at the time, i post a story on red star help social, asking the same. though it’s got me wondering as i wander this green earth: perhaps there’s some metaphorical meaning within.

my mentor and soul sister (more like soulo sister *ayyyyyy*), tracey erin smith, in an act of courageous vulnerability, shares her sense of alone-ness with us, her tribe, last month. it is so moving that it’s been sitting with me since.

a magnetic powerhouse of a woman, a leader, a masseuse for our souls, tes holds space for us to come undone; she helps us poke and prod around in our goo so we may come out with some gold on the other side. her in-sight and sacred space holding is the best i experience. so too, then, who holds space for her? who holds space for our space holders?

who scrubs the scrubbie?

who scrubs the scrubbie? do you know? who is the one who reaches into that sunken sink, filled with dull grey water, to retrieve it, revive it, resuscitate it from its latest great adventure into those murky depths below.

who scrubs the scrubbie?

who is it, who gathers and collects the scrubbie from the bottom of the sink, after all the water washes away, laying in a heap of smushed, broken bubbles, and foodie bits.

who is it? who wrings the scrubbie of its own mess of grey-smushed-foodie bits. is there a scrubbie for the scrubbie? is there a scrubber who, of their own benevolent boon, takes to alighting the scrubbie into its holy glory: to sit, aside the sink, dry, at the ready, in anticipation of the next pile of any-next-thing to enter its domain where it can lift, alight, and prepare them all back to their holiness. bright, squeaky clean.

who is it, who holds the scrubbie dear. it there, standing erect at the sinks edge, patiently waiting for more, more, more, to take charge, take hold and swish-sashay itself through the steamy bubbles into the depths of the dirt that lay in carnage there on those bodies.

the scrubbie, the one who stands, sits, waits: alone.

a singular saviour at the side of the sink. a singular soul-self who sticks themselves out amongst the repetitive clank-banging of those who gather, and collect, at the bottom of the sink.

a singular soul who sees nothing but the clean, the omnipresent, the righteousness of those who pool, collect, and gather in the sink bottom.

who is it who scrubs the scrubbie? do you know?

who is it, who hears, and heals, our healers.
who is it, who holds the space for our space holders.
who is it, who holds the hand of the hand holder.
who is it, who care-takes the caretaker.
who is it, who mothers the mother.
who is it, who fathers the father.

who is it who reaches out and alights you out of the deep, wrenching, dull grey mess you are working so hard in?

who is it who takes you, deep into her bosom, and allows you your own aching return to your heart?

who is it who lifts you, after you lift so many.

who is it then, who?

who scrubs the scrubbie? do you know?

i ask of you, who scrubs the scrubbie?

do you know?

when the dishes heap in a clean pile by the sink, who tends to the scrubbie: spent, soaked, and slippery to its core.

who lends a hand and lifts the mungy mongrels of leftover food particles from its own outer layer. who sits, for a breath or two, and allows the scrubbie to squish, twist, and wreak out its own gray matter. who busies themselves with the task of rinsing, squishing, tending to its core.

tell me, who scrubs the scrubbie?

do you know?

to my scrubbies, i love you fiercely,

xxo ~k 🧡💛❤️

☾ᐧ post script ᐧ☽

if you are a scrubbie and want your own scrubbie, hit me up. i’m happy to scrub my fellow scrubbies. (don’t make it weird… 🤭😜 i mean hold space for you while you alight yourself from the grey matter stuck to your sides.)

☾ᐧ post-post script ᐧ☽

have you thanked your own scrubbies lately?

~ credit to ~ tracey erin smith for her courageous vulnerability in sharing her heart with us all

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